Charmed
by duckmunk
Summary: I'll spend forever wondering if you knew; I was enchanted to meet you. /Or, a collection of drabbles for Caesar's Palace's Shipping Week. Includes Clato, Odesta, Haysilee, Everlark, and Finnick/Johanna.
1. CatoClove

**a/n [**_Written by Johanna for the first day of Caesar's Palace's Shipping Week. Uses prompt 'stained glass' from c/p._**]**

The first of January is a quiet day. Doors are shut, voices are hushed, and the air is cold and dry. A blanket of snow covers the district, and all is calm and well. But somewhere to the north of town, a door slams shut and heavy footsteps make prints in the snow. A mittened hand pounds on someone else's door. When the voice rings out, loud and unforgiving, faces peer out of blinds and curse at the girl buried under scarves.

"Cato. Cato!" Her hand keeps pounding on the door.

When he flings it open, sleep in his eyes and a sweater hastily pulled on, she doesn't give him a second to compose himself. Clove reaches for his hand and steps backward. She has the path memorized—she's walked to town countless of times—and while he knows the way just as well as she, he stumbles through the snow.

"Where are we going, Clo?"

"Somewhere."

They slow when they reach the justice building. It looms above them, the light catching on falling snowflakes making everything seem alight. Clove pulls herself onto the windowsill and burrows into the corner against the stained glass. In the condensation from her breath, she writes her name across a glass strip of green, and then invites Cato to sit. He's more cautious than she to sit next to the icy glass.

"Why are we here?" he asks, crossing his arms against the chill.

"Where else would we be?"

"Home."

"It's not original enough," she says, scooting over until she's leaning against his side. Her head falls on his shoulder, and they stay like that, the snow falling gently around them.


	2. FinnickAnnie

**a/n [**_Written by Johanna for the second day of Caesar's Palace's Shipping Week. Uses prompt 'divine' from c/p._**]**

She's lying across the second step on the back porch, her right arm draped over her eyes, and her left dangling down to the sand below. He sits on the step above her, leaning back on his arms, his legs bent over hers. Together they watch the ocean waves dance over the shore. When Annie speaks up suddenly, her voice sharp against the soft cries of seagulls and the lull of the water, he opens his eyes and peers at her, fondness in his eyes.

She says, "I like right now."

Finnick hums in response and lifts her hand away from her eyes. Weaving his fingers with hers, he asks why.

"It's… bright," she answers, lacking a better word. "Happy."

Her eyes meet his, and she studies them, memorizing the shades of green. With her other hand, she reaches for his cheek.

"Divine," she continues. "I like being with you."

He smiles, and brings her hand to his lips. And she's right, of course—she always seems to be—right now is nice. It's perfect. The sky and the ocean and Annie and everything. Finnick drops her hand and bends down, his lips finding hers, and whispers, "I love you, too."


	3. FinnickAnnie(2)

A/N: FinnickAnnie, written by Lils for the second day of Caesar's Palace Shipping Week.

Annie runs into Finnick after they finish school. It's nearly five thirty at night and she's given up on finding him when she bumps into him on the dusty track leading to the beach.

"Where are you going?" Because the path only leads to the shore, it's a silly question, and Finnick treats it as such.

"The beach, where do you think? You can come too if you like." The sun, no longer above them, dips towards the horizon. He looks up and starts off again, stopping at the end to look back at her. "Well, are you coming?"

The beach is cold, but the sand still retains warmth from the middle of the day. Annie wanders down the shoreline after Finnick, following the tide in and out and skipping backwards when the water touches her feet. Clutching a piece of driftwood so tightly he's in danger of getting splinters, every washed up pile of seaweed offers a defiant challenge to Finnick, and she soon leaves him behind. They've been doing this for as long as she can remember, for so long that it's almost become a game: he fights the monsters and she tries to build the castle before he remembers and catches up. She's never succeeded, though, and today is no exception.

"This one's good," he tells her, sitting back on his feet and staring at it with a critical eye. "Shame the sea has to get it."

"It won't," Annie says. "It can't; it's the best. It's _ours_."

"We made a bigger one last month."

"It wasn't finished last month, and we built it in the open." It had been winter, she remembers, and the wind had eroded it before the sea had the chance. "This one's here," and she pats the rock next to her.

"The waters comes in around that," he says logically. "Under, too."

"It's going to stay," she says stubbornly. "It's our castle."

Finnick sighs and gives in. "Okay, Annie." He pats down the sand at the bottom of the empty moat. The beach is almost deserted now. "We should probably head back now, it's late."

He gets up, throwing a handful of sand in her general direction and starting to run, sand flying up in his wake. Annie pelts after him; even on the unstable ground, she's faster, and soon they leave the sandcastle far behind. Finally, the sun sets and behind them, the sea washes right up the beach.


	4. HaymitchMaysilee

**a/n [**_Written by Johanna for the third day of Caesar's Palace's Shipping Week. Uses prompt 'infidelity' from c/p._**]**

It's too quiet—the train, the breaths, the heartbeats. Haymitch feels like he'll suffocate under it all. He knows there should be some sound—a sigh, a voice, a rustle—but all that greets him is silence. Eventually, the pounding in his head sounds real, solid, like he could reach out and feel the tension. The tensions feels a lot like broken glass, and if he doesn't get it out soon, he's going to scream. So he does the only thing he can think to do—he walks across the hall to Maysilee's room and slides through the unlocked door.

He knows her from town. He knows her hands that passed out free candy to the poorest children. He knows her walk and how she sways her hips when she walks like she's always happy about something. He knows her shoulders and how they didn't shake once when she was called up to the stage. And he knows she's the only one strong enough to pull him back together.

Yet still, Haymitch closes his eyes _tight_ and keeps them that way, because with his eyes closed, he can't remember that the soft curls tangled in his grasp aren't brunette. He can't remember that the skin against his isn't dotted with freckles. He can't remember that the name off his lips isn't hers. He tries not to remember anything at all.


	5. HaymitchMaysilee(2)

A/N: Written by Lils for the third day of the Caesar's Palace Shipping Week.

The last time he sees her, he throws up. It's understandable, Maysilee supposes. The bird's beak went in deep, tearing through muscles; morbidly, she wonders whether the hole's visible. There's a scratch just underneath her eye, too. At first she was thankful it was below her eye, instead of above which would have impaired her vision, but now she wonders whether it matters. Blood dries in streaks down her face, and her head is hazy from the pain. The few salty tears she can't keep back sting when they come in contact with the tiny cut.

Then he kills them all for her, of course he does. He burns with fury and strength, despite their weeks in the arena, while she's so weak she can barely stand. The beak went into her side and when it withdrew, it took her strength with it. "Haymitch," Maysilee croaks, or tries to. Her voice went with her energy, and she closes her eyes.

Haymitch moves to kneel beside her. She's on the ground, she realises. When did that happen? Her fingers scrabble in the dirt, because the moment of painlessness has passed and now she burns all over. Maysilee wants to say something, anything, but the heat reaches her throat and it's too much effort to even lift her head, let alone find a sound inside her.

She notices it's getting dark. Dark, when the sun was high in the sky only an hour ago. His hands are by her stomach wound, a futile effort to fix her, and his lips move, but it's like she's nearing the end of a dark tunnel and his words can't reach her there. The dirt she's swirling her fingers in has turned to mud, but it isn't raining. It feels thicker, too, and it makes it too hard to move her hand, and she's so tired ... Maysilee closes her eyes and leaves Haymitch kneeling in dirt made muddy with her blood.


	6. KatnissPeeta

**a/n [**_I SWEAR THIS WAS GONNA BE FLUFF, BUT MY HAND SLIPPED._ _Written by Johanna for the fourth day of Caesar's Palace's Shipping Week. Uses prompt 'music notes' from c/p._**]**

Peeta feels like everything is one giant joke that no one will let him in on. The doctors whisper back and forth—all day long, not even pretending they aren't. The visitors look utterly depressed—even Delly, which he isn't quite sure is possible, so he must be imagining it. Even his own mind seems out to get him—the nightmares won't go away.

Eventually Peeta gives up on people and life and himself. He stays in his medically perfect bed and hangs limp when the doctors try and get him to move or speak or be happy. It almost seems better this way, except his mind seems to grow worse the more he stares at the blank white ceiling.

When he starts screaming nonstop, at thin air, at two o'clock in the afternoon, someone finally gets an idea. The music starts off quietly, meant to be calming, but Peeta can't hear it over himself. So the sound is blasted up until it's too high to bear, and Peeta ends up quieting, curling into himself in the center of his bed.

He doesn't listen for the first few minutes, because he just wants everything to stop—_why can't I just die already?_ But when it finally hits him, he stops breathing and unfurls on the bed until he's lying calmly on his back. He knows that song, that voice. The voice that screams at him every time he shuts his eyes. The voice he should _hate_, but he can't—it's too soft, too gentle, too kind. And the ceiling doesn't seem so harsh anymore.


	7. FinnickJohanna

**a/n [**_I need to write my BroTP more often. Written by Johanna for the fifth day of Caesar's Palace's Shipping Week. Uses prompt 'sinners' from c/p._**]**

If you ignore the small detail that she's drugged with morphine and he's crazy with love, the moment almost seems pleasant in a dark sort of way. The conversation starts slowly with how-are-you's and weak laughter after weak jokes, but she's Johanna and he's Finnick, and if nothing else is easy between the two, at least they can always talk. So, quickly, the conversation changes to rebellions and President Snow's severed head rolling the steps of his own damn mansion.

"You'll kill him, right?" Johanna asks, teeth gritted and breaths heavy even though everything's supposed to be happy and painless.

"That's the plan," Finnick says. He's smiling, and there's so many reasons behind that smile, but if he had to make a list from most prominent reason to least, sweet revenge would be at the very top.

"Good." And for a moment, everything seems like it is just that.


	8. CashmereGloss

**a/n [**_Written by Johanna for the sixth day of Caesar's Palace's Shipping Week. Uses prompt 'family' from c/p._**]**

They start as children in the simplest of ways. Walking the short paths from home to school to the market and back, they step in time. They're both whispering 'left, right' as they go, except he's got the two mixed up, and her legs are two short to match his strides.

When they're older, and taller, and no longer told to hold hands to cross the street, they race into town to sign-up together. Cashmere grasps the pen first, after shoving her brother out of the way, and scrawls the little details—age, name, gender, etc—before writing in her brother's information for him. He doesn't bother to check it over; he trusts his sister more than he trusts himself.

There's a battle to see who'll get to volunteer first. It's not organized or regulated, and the majority of it is verbal, and while she can't stop persisting that she's older and it's her destiny to be first, Gloss wins.

She gets her chance the next year, when the stakes are higher, because she can't lose now, not after he's made it through. When it all comes down to it, however, she's not trying for the competition or the thrill or the fame. Her first priority is to come home, where Gloss will stand there waiting, and they'll count steps—baby steps—and march back home.

When they end, it'll be harsh, but they won't leave each others side.


	9. FinnickKatniss

**a/n [**_Written by Johanna for the last day of Caesar's Palace's Shipping Week. Uses prompt 'rain drops' from c/p._**]**

After thirty hours, Finnick comes to the realization that sleeping is even worse than reality than it usually is. So he makes a vow to himself to stay awake, and stay focused, and count the seconds until they can go back up, where nothing is better, but at least he feels like he can breathe.

He's somewhere around 323 seconds when light footsteps approach him and Katniss sits down in his bunk, pulling her knees to her chest and hiding her face in her knees.

"Hi," she mumbles. 329 seconds.

"Hey," he says, scooting closer to see her in the brown light, suddenly desperate for a distraction. 335. "Do you still have my rope?"

A hand weaves itself out from the crevice between her chest and legs and hands him the limp rope, more worn than when he gave it to her. Better used. He's tying a simple square knot before he even realizes it's in his hands again.

340.

Katniss swivels her head to look at his hands, watching him tie knot after knot, entranced, until he ties the two ends together and places it on her head like a crown. Despite everything, she manages a quick laugh. Finnick pulls out a smile.

473.

Because when it rains, it pours, and when they've lost hope, they've lost themselves. But they can find solace again in one another.


End file.
